Mine

He hates it when she does this; trails him around behind her like a dog on a leash for everyone to see. He hates it – it's like she thinks she fucking owns him or something. He's the Graverobber for fuck sake, he reminds himself – nobody owns him. Not in anyway. Nobody at all. Especially not Amber – fucking – Sweet.

"I do own you Graverobber" she purrs – as though she has read his thought, damn her

to hell. She pulls at his makeshift leash so he is close up against her choking and she smiles up at him with the devil dancing in her eyes. With her body pressing against him like it is he could almost acquiesce and just crumble into yes, yes, I'm yours, anything you say – but –

"The hell you do" he growls.

She barely flickers – there is a slight twitch to the edge of her smile and nothing more when she brings her knee up into his groin and then lets him go only to allow him to double over in pain. Amber Sweet, ladies and gentleman, the only woman in the world who could kick you in the balls and give you an erection to go with the pain.

"Bitch-" he spits through gritted teeth, trying not to let it come out as an excessively unmanly squeak. She laughs and he hates her sometimes, he really does.

She scares him how quickly she can move when he's off his guard, which he can't fucking help but be now – she is behind him with frightening suddenness, yanking his head back by the hair, a knife at his throat, and it's his knife, damn it. He hates this. Honest he does.

"What did you call me?" she snarls, her voice dripping honey and venom, pretending she hates it when he calls her that, afraid by how much she really does want to be able to call him hers and what this wanting could possibly mean.

"You're a fucking bitch" he spits back recklessly. She growls softly, a sound that always makes him shudder and convince himself that he's shuddering with distaste, and she digs the point of the knife into his neck, hard enough to draw blood and to make him cry out and yes, she has fucking un- manned him again. She dips her head to lick at the trickle of blood and her hand slides down his chest –

"You want to be careful who you're calling names Graverobber" she hisses –

"I could kill you myself in seconds and nobody who counts would be sorry – and I could have you killed just as easily –" she pauses, feeling a horrible wrench at the heart at the thought of him not being there and it scares and angers her, making her dig her nails vindictively into his skin to hurt him for making her want him – "You belong to me Graverobber and don't you ever forget it – you're as much mine as if I'd had my surgeons write my name across your heart, jerk." She finishes triumphantly and he feels horribly wretched and aroused all at once – as if she didn't know that he already felt as though he had her name inscribed, indeed burnt across his heart. Well. Maybe she didn't know. He was quite good at hiding it after all.

She twists around to face him and bends to kiss him and he leans in like a moth to a flame. Her lips are warm as fire, soft as snow, sweet as honey. He doesn't believe in fairytales, knows that there are no happy endings left these days – but even so he thinks that maybe she could be his.

"Tell me –" she insists in a soft almost whisper far worse than anything else – "Whose you are".

He isn't quite sure if it is her kiss or the knife at his throat that makes him give in, but give in he does, no longer sure if he even minds –

"Yours" he sighs, beaten and curiously content about it – "I'm yours".

She bares her teeth and slaps him in the face, and he knows instantly what he has done wrong – "I'm yours mistress" he amends with a soft, barely audible groan. She smiles, finally at that, a happy almost little girl smile, and strokes his face gently with her fingertips –

"Damn straight you are, jerk" she purrs contentedly, and her knife arm drops, her hand loosening its grip.

He takes advantage of her relaxing instantly and snatches the knife from her, quick as a whip. At the same time he pushes upwards, slamming her round onto her back on the floor. And now he's the one straddling her, grinning cruelly with the knife at her throat –

"And who the fuck do you think you belong to, bitch?" he growls.

It's really a rhetorical question, not expecting an answer as he trails the tip of the knife across her neck almost thoughtfully. His eyes are dark, a cruel smirk on his face and he pushes and the edge of the blade sinks just a little into the soft part of her throat, her breath hitching just enough, just the tiniest betrayal- enough to make him grin and roll his hips lazily against hers, loving the involuntary moan he gets even as her eyes are fixed on his warily, even as the blood runs slowly along the edge of the knife.

He lowers his head, licks at the blood and then kisses her possessively, feeling her arch under him, feeling the shudder run through her whole body before she can hide it behind snarls and teeth. He pulls back, grins at her wolfishly, and asks again, softly, implicit threat dripping in his tone.

"Who do you belong to, bitch?"

"Not you, rat."

"I was hoping you'd say that," Graverobber purrs, his lips close to her ear as though whispering sweet nothings. He smiles. "I'm sure we can fix that, my dearest Amber—"and he bites down hard on her neck, growling viciously. "—I'll teach you exactly whose you are."

He pulls back suddenly, eyes narrowed and unreadable as he looks down at her, and uses the knife to cut the laces at the front of her corset—neatly, in one smooth motion, the tip of the blade grazing her stomach and dragging a soft whine from her that could almost be a plea.

"I'll make sure everyone can see who owns you, you jumped up little cunt." It's barely even a threat, the smirk never leaving his face as he watches realisation dawn in Amber's eyes. It's almost pretty, that shiver of anticipation and fear as her own eyes go dark to match his, and he waits for a tangible few seconds before raising the knife to her heart. The blade sinks in easily, Amber crying out and arching under him as he drags the knife carefully across. The next is harder—the blood beginning to pool around the knife blade as he carves the second letter. He raises a bloody hand to her mouth absently and she licks it, her lips smeared with red and her expression hazy with desire and pain as he draws back to admire his handiwork, a crude "GR" etched on her flesh right over her heart. She really could be his now—in his head, maybe. He'd never admit how much he wanted that, certainly not to her—the humiliation would be too much. With a growl, frustrated, he digs his nails into the wound cruelly, hearing her scream for him, clawing at his back—"You fucking bastard, just fuck me already—" and he smirks, dipping his head to lick over the initials roughly.

"Ask me nicely."

"You fucking low down, dirty, disgusting asshole—"

"Try again," and he wraps his bloody hand around her throat, nipping at her lips with his teeth.

"—filthy, pathetic, ignorant little shit—"

"Oh baby, I didn't know you cared," and his hand grips tighter. "Just tell me who you belong to and I'll do whatever you want."

She goes silent, and he tightens his grip again, feeling her gasp in a harsh breath under his fingers.

"...yours."

"I'm sorry, I can't hear you."

"YOURS, alright? I'm fucking yours."

"...Master."

"Fuck you!"

"Not until you say it."

"...I'm yours, Master."

God, how he wishes he didn't believe it in that moment. But she sounded so sure, so...relieved, to say it, that he can't help but believe her, just a little.

"Much better," Graverobber purrs, licking up her throat and tasting blood. He shoves up her skirt, unbuckles his belts and kicks off his pants, pushing into her before she's recovered from the bruising grip on her windpipe. She cries out, hoarsely, and he tangles his fingers into her hair and tugs hard until she opens her eyes, locking her gaze with his as he fucks her roughly, snarling. "Mine—"

The blood pools in the hollows of her collarbone, her throat, leaving red streaks over her pale skin that he lowers his head to suck at before kissing her, bruising, hard kisses that leave her moaning and flushed, her lips bound to be swollen in the morning.

"Yours—" she gasps out, and he doesn't press her for the Master, can hear it in her voice anyway as she comes with a scream, dragging him with her with nails in his back and teeth on his shoulder and leaving them in a bloody tangle of limbs, shaking.

If only it could last forever, but no, she' s up, and she's screaming that he's marked her and she looks ugly and he wants nothing more than to tell her she's beautiful and hold her and make some kind of effort to not be a bastard, but he just can't.

"Yeah, I can barely look at you."

"Least I can fix how I look, asshole."

"Yeah, with Daddy's blood money. Shame you can't fix your personality at the same time." There's no venom in it this time, both oddly content to just smile and trade insults for the moment.

"Bastard."

"Whore."

"Arrogant cocksucker."

"Takes one to know one."

"See you tomorrow?"

"Fucking hope not."

He knows that means I love you in some twisted language, and it's enough as he gives her an over-elaborate bow and tosses her a vial of glow before disappearing into the night.

"Mine," he says under his breath, wondering if she's saying the same thing.